


Christmas by Myself This Year (Christmas Wrapping)

by thebright1



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses (Song), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale & Madame Tracy Friendship (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley are disasters, Back Pain, Being in your 40s, But mostly fluff, Christmas Angst, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Romance, Everything being in your 40s entails, F/F, Found Family, I'm not really sure, Idiots in Love, It probably should be rated Teen and Up instead of Mature, M/M, Michael is doing zer best, Never knowing where your winter gear is on the day it snows, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Romance, Romantic Comedy, Snow, Swearing, That tag should be on everything i write, Ze/Zir Pronouns for Michael, good snowmens, inspired by a song, the 1990s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28778508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebright1/pseuds/thebright1
Summary: On New Year's Eve, bookshop owner Aziraphale meets event planner Anthony Crowley and sparks fly. But will they ever find time to have dinner together?A human AU written for the Good Snowmens exchange, taking heavy inspiration from the song Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Michael (Good Omens), Past Beelzebub/Dagon, Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 49
Collections: Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange





	1. Bah Humbug! December 24, This Year (1995)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IsleofSolitude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/gifts).



>   
> 
> 
> If you've never heard this song, you should have a quick listen, because it's an adorable 5 minute 21 second romcom:
> 
> [Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses](https://open.spotify.com/track/3nhzTOc939C4v4ecTEZTPl?si=latEx8YXSV6-EWTZMMSYFQ)
> 
> Thank you to my patient beta VWE. Any mistakes in here are entirely my own.

**Bah Humbug! December 24, This Year (1995)**

Aziraphale’s right hand (and why, oh, why does he always manage to lose the  _ right _ glove?) is cramping from the cold and the weight of its burdens. Even the to-go cup, filled with cocoa and clutched perilously between his thumb and forefinger, isn’t enough to keep said fingers from going numb in the bitter London wind. A bag with his vacation reading materials dangles from the other two bare fingers, which have lost all circulation almost immediately from the weight of the books. He would switch everything to his left, gloved, hand, but that one is currently holding another bag containing a brightly-wrapped present for Tracy, the rest of his Christmas cards (to be hand-delivered to his neighbors, since he missed the deadline for the post), and the world’s smallest turkey, care of Tesco.

It is very cold tonight (-6℃!), so he is moving very, very quickly on a very, very, very icy sidewalk. He skids, literally, to a stop as the light ahead of him changes and cars go whizzing by. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and winces as he draws cold air into his lungs. 

A lorry rumbles past in front of him. The driver of the lorry has rigged up brightly colored Christmas lights around the interior, which Aziraphale thinks looks just lovely in a quaint, but modern way, and puts a warm glow in his heart . . . right before the lorry’s engine shoots a plume of black smoke right into his face. He coughs, doubling over with the effort. He involuntarily clenches his hand, and the to-go cup of hot cocoa bursts, burning his hand. He yelps, throwing his hand up and out to his side, still coughing. His feet slip on an icy patch and then he’s tumbling backwards and – _ oh no, the bag with Tracy’s present! _ He has the presence of mind to hoist it high above him with his left arm, even as his back hits the hard pavement. He looks up at the dun-coloured clouds reflecting the city lights, and wonders if he’s broken anything. A familiar face leans over him, a perfect red curl escaping from under a chunky knit white and gold hat. A complimentary gloved hand (right, Aziraphale can’t help from noticing), gently pushes the curl away. Aziraphale tries not to wince. 

Of course it’s Michael. 

“Aziraphale,” xe says, xir eyes round and wide. “I saw you from the street– you took quite a tumble. Do you need me to call 999?”

“No,” he says, smiling reflexively and sitting up. He bites his lip to smother the groan. His back hurts something fierce. 

Xe reaches out a hand, “Let me help you, please.” 

Aziraphale’s smile grows tighter as he takes xir hand. It’s not that he doesn’t like Michael. He does.  _ It’s just that xe’s always a bit— _

“A man your age— you’re lucky you didn’t break a hip!”

_ A bit like that.  _

Xe hoists him to his feet. Aziraphale feels a bit like a fish caught on a hook. “Yes, I suppose,” he says neutrally. He really does like Michael, he reminds himself. He even went to xir wedding. 

“Michael, get back in the cab! It’s time to go!!” 

_ Speak of the devil, _ Aziraphale thinks. Michael turns to look at Bee hanging out the door of a black cab. “What are you doing? Is he coming with us?” 

Michael smiles at xir spouse and waves. “No, I don’t think so. He needs to change first, at the very least.”

Aziraphale looks down at his now chocolate covered khaki coat and sighs. The stain will never come out. He doesn’t want to imagine what the back of his favorite coat looks like, after sprawling across the dirty sidewalk. 

Michael smiles at Aziraphale, not unkindly. “Now, if you’re sure you’re all right, I’ve got to run, musn’t keep Bee waiting. My other half hates to be late.” Aziraphale feels a pang of loneliness. If only he had an “other half”. He thinks of all the long hours he’s been putting in at the shop. If only he had  _ time _ for an other half. 

Michael turns and hurries to the cab. Aziraphale suddenly remembers the party they’re going to. The one he didn’t bother to RSVP to. And the card in his bag next to Tracy’s present. “Oh, Michael, I have— that is, I wanted—“ he shouts and stumbles a little, trying to remain upright (his back suddenly feels extremely stiff and tight), while simultaneously reaching into the bag and digging around for the handmade Christmas card he has labored over for Michael and Bee. He takes a few lurching steps, skids around on the ice again, and catches himself. Another lorry rumbles past, drowning out his words. 

Michael is closing the cab door. He sees Bee waving at the driver inside while Michael rolls down the window. Xe sticks xir hand out to wave, and Aziraphale hears a cheerful “Be careful! Happy Christmas, we’ll see you later! ” as the cab pulls away. 

Aziraphale raises a hand, tries to smile. It’s his favorite holiday, it really is, but in the back of his mind he thinks  _ Bah, humbug! _


	2. Completions and Connections Left From Last Year (1994)  . . . December 31, 10:45pm

**Completions and Connections Left From Last Year (1994) . . . December 31, 10:45pm**

Michael clears xir throat and takes a spoon to the side of xir wine glass. The room quiets down and all eyes turn expectantly at the happy couple. “We might have started working at rival companies, but when I first laid eyes on Bee, I knew I had met my soulmate, and nothing was going to come between us – especially not a job! I quit the very next day.” 

The partygoers clap and whistle. Aziraphale tries very hard not to roll his eyes. _Yes, all well and good,_ he thinks, _but I can’t afford to just quit my job when I meet the love of my life. Some of us don’t have Daddy to back us up here on Earth._

Michael is now droning on about how wonderful Bee is. Aziraphale’s jealousy is overwhelming. Surreptitiously grabbing his hat, and pretending he’s looking for the loo, Aziraphale slips away from the party room. He waits until the door to the party room swings shut and then buttons his khaki pea coat (entirely wrong for skiing, but it was all he had), and clomps towards the front doors of the lodge. Like a child throwing a tantrum, Aziraphale lets the heavy ski boots hit the tiles just a bit too hard, reveling in the noise they make. He knows it will be freezing outside, especially since he’s lost his right glove, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get outside, away from the heat, away from Bee and Michael and the stupid happy lives they’ll lead stupidly and happily together. He bursts through the doors of the lodge and into the crisp night air. 

_What did you expect, Aziraphale?_ He admonishes himself. This is an engagement party, after all. At a ski resort. This was never going to be a very good time for a lonely single man in his mid-forties, let alone one who has never skied before. 

If he and Michael hadn’t had that very uncomfortable conversation at Christmas, he wouldn’t even have come. But he wants to show that he can forgive and let bygones be bygones. Besides, they’ve known each other for most of their lives, practically grew up together. He knew xir way back when xe had a completely different name. Michael is one of the good ones, an ally, a friend . . . who is just so much more direct than Aziraphale is comfortable with. 

_Maybe that’s why xe is getting married, and you’re standing outside shivering,_ he thinks bitterly. Xe would never let xir job, or xir renovations, or xir manners, or xir customers stand in the way of what xe wants. Xe said as much in xir stupid toast. 

He tries to flex his ankle in the boot again. Fails. Feels like he has thick blocks for feet. He’s not sure he has all his toes anymore. 

The ski lodge is exactly what one would expect: a log cabin facade outside, with a large, covered wrap-around porch. Orange lights from the slopes reflect on the snow. Other skiers trample up and down the four stairs down the porch to the snow packed ground. Aziraphale tries to stay out of their way. He holds onto the railing tightly as he navigates the steps. His right hand stings from the cold. He tries to bunch the sleeve of his coat up to cover his fingers, but it doesn’t work. He walks right past his skis and poles planted in the snow and towards the rental shop. He just wants to take these damned boots off and put on his own shoes. Then he can return the skis and poles and then he’ll go back to the party. He just needs to get comfortable, then he’ll be able to smile and nod and be happy for Michael and Bee. He can do the countdown and say Happy New Year and have a bit of champagne. It’s too much to be happy for someone else when you’re so miserable _and_ so uncomfortable. If he can be comfortable, he can pretend to be happy. 

He marches along, the plastic tips of the boots digging into the snow that scatters away from his feet like sand at the beach. It’s a hard slog and he’s sweating by the time he reaches the threshold of the shop. He retrieves his shoes and sits down on the bench. He looks at the shoes mournfully, and then begins trying to force the ski boots off. The strap that holds them together is jammed with snow and ice from his many, many falls. The fingertips of his right hand are swollen and red. He shakes them out, furious that he is so close to comfort only to continue to struggle. 

“Here, try this,” a voice says. 

Aziraphale looks up and feels the breath rush out of him just like it did when he fell to the ground during his skiing lesson earlier that day. Unlike earlier in the day, it returns quickly and thankfully without any gasping and coughing. A tall, pale, skinny, and magnificently handsome man stands before him holding out a small packet of something that looks very like tea. 

Aziraphale reaches out a hand before he can think. “Oh, that’s very, uhm, kind, of you to offer, but I don’t have any hot wat-” the words die on his lips as he touches the small packet. “Oh, it’s warm.” 

The stranger grins down at him. Aziraphale’s mouth grows dry. “Pretty amazing what humans come up with, isn’t it? They’re called ‘Hot Hands’. You’re supposed to put them in your gloves.” 

“Uh, yes,” Aziraphale says. He blinks several times, stunned by this absolute vision before him. Short red hair pulled into a rockabilly coif. Very stylish, very sexy. Dark round sunglasses, and peeking over the rim Aziraphale can see playful amber eyes watching him. “Oh, that’s good,” he sighs, and he’s not sure if he’s talking about the hand warmers or the man in front of him. 

The man who is going down on one knee before him. “Let me help, I’m an old hand at this.” He reaches for Aziraphale’s boot, and expertly unlocks the strap on first the right, then the left. 

Aziraphale feels an immediate relief in his ankles and audibly moans. “Oh, that feels so wonderful,” he says, then pauses, awkward. The man is still on his knee staring at Aziraphale. His eyes seem a little more intent than they were before. “I mean, the- the- the boot, my ankle has been-”

The man nods, and gently taps the side of the boot. His finger brushes the back of Aziraphale’s calf. “You can probably just slide your feet out,” he says. “I’ll hold the boot.” His hands come up and circle Aziraphale’s calf before sliding down to hold the boot rim. “I hate skiing– hard on the buttocks when you fall. But my siblings adore it, so I got dragged along to every family ski trip.”

“I’m in a similar situation,” Aziraphale admits. “My friend, who I practically grew up with, is here for a party and I got guilted into coming. I’ve never skied before in my life.” 

_I know I’m prickly sometimes, Azi._ Michael had said, tears glittering at the corners of xir eyes. _But we’ve been together through so much, we’re practically family, and I need some family now. Please_. 

“Wouldn’t happen to be that engagement party going on in the lodge, would it?” the stranger asks casually. The man hasn’t moved his hands from the boot rim. Aziraphale hasn’t moved his calf. _Is this flirting?_ It’s been so long since someone flirted with him. Ages, really. 

“Actually, yes.”

The man smiles. “I take it you know Michael, then.” Before Aziraphale can respond, the stranger has lifted a hand to the back of his knee and is gripping the back of the boot with the other. He slides Aziraphale’s foot loose. 

Aziraphale gives out another small sigh of pleasure and then blushes to the roots of his hair. “Sorry, that just feels so nice after being trapped in those boots. And yes– do you know Michael?”

The man shakes his head. “Nah, just met ‘em today. But you don’t look like Bee’s type of person. I’m their brother.” 

“Oh, I didn’t realize-”

“I don’t get on very well with most of my siblings. Always been a bit different. Next foot.” He has put his hand on the back of Aziraphale’s left knee now. Aziraphale has quite a bit more feeling in this leg and he can feel the splay of the other man’s fingers. It has been quite a long time since anyone touched the back of his knee. He feels warm in his belly. He holds still as the stranger pulls the boot off his foot and sets it aside. 

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you so much, uhm- that is-”

“Name’s Crowley,” the man says. He stands abruptly and holds out a hand like they’re performing a business transaction. Aziraphale stands to take Crowley’s hand, but immediately realizes two things: he still has the warm satchel of what he originally took to be tea in his right hand, and his feet are still getting the feeling back in them. He gets upright, wobbles, and then begins to tip over _onto_ Crowley. Crowley immediately catches him under the elbows, and suddenly they’re almost chest to chest, and Aziraphale is feeling very warm indeed. He can feel Crowley’s breath on his face. 

“So sorry,” Aziraphale says reflexively. “My feet must still be asleep, and-”

“No problem,” Crowley says. They are still very close, and Crowley is still holding him by the elbows and if Aziraphale nudged himself just a little bit forwards–

“Excuse me, have either of you seen my glove?” 

A girl– a woman, Aziraphale supposes, although just barely by the looks of her, stands shivering in the door of the ski shop. She can’t be more than nineteen. She’s dressed completely inadequately for the weather: jeans and a heavy sweatshirt that are both completely soaked. She’s wearing a pair of novelty earmuffs that look like reindeer. Aziraphale can’t imagine they’re keeping her head warm at all. 

Aziraphale and Crowley look at the girl, at each other, and then take a step backwards. Aziraphale falls back on his butt on the bench. Then both men look at the ground in earnest, lifting up their feet and ducking their heads this way and that. 

“It’s bright pink,” the young woman says hopefully. She holds up her still gloved hand, which is encased in a neon pink glove. “Big thick thing?” 

“I’m sorry my dear-” Aziraphale begins at the same moment Crowley says, “Don’t see anything here.” 

The girl nods sadly. “I always manage to lose the left one every time”.

Aziraphale looks at his gloved hand. “Well, you happen to be in luck, then.” He pulls his left brown leather glove off, and hands it to her. “I always happen to lose the right one.” 

“Oh!” she says, her voice full of gratitude and surprise. “Oh, but how will you keep warm?”

Aziraphale smiles. “I think I’m done with skiing, my dear. Today, and quite possibly forever. You are more than welcome to it.” 

She takes it from him and grins. “Thanks so much! You’re an angel!” She gives a wave and heads back out into the cold– still wearing her skiing boots, Aziraphale notices. 

Crowley lifts one corner of his mouth. “Done skiing for the rest of your life, eh?” 

Aziraphale smiles. “It is definitely not for me. I told Michael I don’t ski. Xe actually gave me those gloves for Christmas.”

Crowley lifts his eyebrows. “And you gave it away?”

Aziraphale squares his shoulders defiantly. “It’s cold, and she looked soaked through, the poor thing! Anyway, it’s nearly useless to me– I don’t have two and Michael is always going on and on about how I lose things. Maybe if they’re both gone xe won’t notice.”

“Sounds just like an older annoying sibling I know. Are your feet waking up yet?” 

Aziraphale wiggles his toes. “I think so.”

“Good, let’s get out of here before–”

“Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s shoulders hunch as he recognizes Michael’s voice. He turns to see xir standing in the doorway to the ski shop, xir frosted lips in a pout, hands on hips. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” 

Aziraphale smiles wanly and stands. “Michael. I was just– ”

Bee interrupts from behind Michael. “Crowley!”

Aziraphale glances at Crowley, whose lips have suddenly pulled back into what has to be the most dazzling smile Aziraphale has ever seen. “Bee,” he drawls. “Beelzebub, BeeBee, my little buzzer–”

“Stop!” Bee commands. “I hired you because you’re my brother, and you said you could put this whole thing together in six weeks.”

“And I did!” Crowley says, his smile not budging. “Aren’t you having a lovely time? You both look fantastic!”

“I would be having a better time if there weren’t fifty people asking _me_ when the bloody cake is arriving!” Bee is furious.

“11:20 pm,” Crowley says, not missing a beat. He lifts his arm and shows a very fancy, very expensive looking watch that reads 11:10 pm. “Did the toasts end early?”

“Well,” Michael cuts in. “I had thought that someone else would give a toast, but then we couldn’t find him.” Xe looks expectantly at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s face turns crimson. “Oh. Well. I. That is- I was- If I had known-”

“Look, Bee,” Crowley says. He throws an arm around his sibling, who bats him away angrily. Crowley pivots from Bee to put his other arm around Aziraphale in one of those strange manly side-hugs that Aziraphale has only been a part of unwillingly until now. “I’ve got it under control, it’s all going to be fine. Cake will arrive in ten minutes. I was just helping out my new soon-to-be-in-law’s best friend . . . uh . . . uhm. . . “

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale says. He reaches a hand out to Bee. “I’ve heard so much about you, Beelzebub.” He can feel his face go hot. Michael has talked about Bee, of course, but a lot of it revolves around how much fun they’re having in the bedroom, and for the past month, about whether there is a requisite number of months you should know someone before marrying them. He and Michael had been at odds on this one: he thought it should be at least a year. Xe thought six months was plenty of time and was planning a spring wedding. 

Bee looks at Aziraphale and gives him an appraising look. “Oh, you’re the one who owns the bookshop.”

Aziraphale’s face breaks into a smile. “Yes, I do!”

“And you’re gay,” Bee says. Aziraphale can see why Michael likes them. They share the same level of directness. 

Michael reads the expression on Aziraphale’s face and mercifully swoops in. “Bee, my dear, not everyone is as open about that as we are.” Xe looks at Crowley. 

Crowley does not remove his arm, and this fact does not escape Aziraphale’s notice. “Well, nothing to be ashamed of, opening a bookshop. We can’t all be corporate shills,” he says amiably. “Someone has to be in business for themselves, and I say ‘Bravo Aziraphale!’ for taking on the system!” 

Aziraphale has never once in his life thought of owning his bookshop as ‘taking on the system’. But he feels a little swell of pride nonetheless and a small smile breaks out on his face.

Michael blinks very pointedly as if xe can’t quite believe what xe is hearing. “Yes. Well. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to sneak off by yourself for the new year.” 

Aziraphale knows Michael means this in the nicest way possible, but the words sting. 

“Michael–” he begins, but Crowley cuts him off. 

“He’s with me!” He squeezes Aziraphale to his side. “We’ll be fine,” he adds, and Aziraphale’s heart flutters. 

Michael gives a pointed look to Bee, clearly asking for xir beloved’s approval on this situation. Bee scoffs and shrugs in response, then turns to head for the door. “You better be there for the midnight toast, Crowley. Or else.” 

Crowley’s smile gets even wider. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” 

* * *

Bells are ringing and noisemakers are going off, and Aziraphale’s feet are cold again, but he doesn’t care because Crowley’s tongue is in his mouth and the taller man has him pinned back against the side of the lodge, and they’re kissing like it’s the end of the world or the start of a brand new one, and it’s wonderful, just wonderful. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s hands sliding up his back. His arms wrap around Crowley’s neck, feeling the soft hairs at the nape, and Aziraphale thinks this is quite possibly the most romantic thing that has ever happened to him. And then . . . then . . . a horrible loud noise screeches and echoes all around them and a voice blares out over a loudspeaker directly above their heads: “ANTHONY CROWLEY, PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT DESK IMMEDIATELY. ANTHONY CROWLEY, PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT DESK IMMEDIATELY.” 

Crowley pulls away and curses under his breath. His sunglasses are pushed up and tangled in his hair, which is mussed from their interrupted exertions. “Sorry,” he says and glances up at the speaker. “It appears I have to go.” 

Aziraphale nods, catching his breath. “Immediately,” Aziraphale murmurs. 

They stop for a moment, staring at each other, and then the horrible screeching noise returns. They both shudder, then Beelzebub’s voice blares out, harsh and painful. “CROWLEY GET YOUR WORTHLESS LAZY ARSE HERE RIGHT NOW!”

They look at each other and then laugh hysterically. Crowley reaches for Aziraphale once more, and they share a brief, less passionate kiss. _A goodbye kiss,_ Aziraphale thinks mournfully, as Crowley pulls away, and digs around in the pockets of his jaket until he produces a business card, which he tucks into the inner pocket of Aziraphale’s peacoat. He pats Aziraphale’s chest. The intimacy takes Aziraphale’s breath away. 

“Look, I don’t know how long this is going to take, but . . . call me, all right?” Crowley says. “Please. If you want. If you’re free, when you’re free, and you want to.”

Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat. Not a goodbye kiss. A goodbye _for now_ kiss. He pulls back and nods, his mouth suddenly dry. “Yes, sure.” 

Crowley nods. “Settled then. Happy New Year, angel.” Aziraphale shivers in delight at the word _angel_. No one has ever given him a pet name before. It is surprisingly arousing. 

Crowley gives a half-hearted wave and then disappears around the corner and into the lodge.

* * *

Aziraphale has to leave early the next day so he can receive a shipment for the bookshop. But he calls the number written under the words “ANTHONY J. CROWLEY, EVENT PLANNER” three days later. Which, he decides, is a completely respectable and definitely not desperate period of time to wait for. He leaves a message including his home phone number and spends the next three months almost living in the bookshop after a water main break in the mostly disused break room upstairs. Half his stock is ruined. He needs to do a major renovation and still try to keep the shop open and turning a profit.

He misses every one of Crowley’s weekly calls. 


	3. Christmas by Myself This Year . . . December 24th, 1995

**Christmas by Myself This Year . . . December 24th, 1995**

Something is very wrong with Aziraphale’s back. He can feel it tensing and throbbing every few minutes. He hobbles stiffly down the hall to his flat. Bending over to slide the card under Michael and Bee’s door just about killed him. He thinks of Michael’s words.  _ A man his age _ . Bah! Michael is no spring chicken xyrself. 

At least the pain is keeping him from thinking about his stiff and frozen fingers. He wishes he had one of those hot hands things that Crowley had last year. 

Or just Crowley’s hands. Holding his. That would be nice, too. 

He sighs. Maybe next year he’ll get it together. 

Aziraphale pauses in front of the door to Tracy’s flat. He considers just leaving the present outside her door, but that feels very miserly. He had spent quite a bit of time selecting the right gift. He raises his hand and knocks.

“Just a moment!” he hears Tracy call. 

He shuffles his feet uncomfortably while he waits for her to open the door.  _ A nice hot bath,  _ he thinks. That’s what will make his back feel better. Just drop the present off, chat for a few minutes, and then down the hall. He can pop the turkey in the oven and then slide into his tub with his new book and– 

_ Oh. Oh no. The books. In the bag. On the street.  _

Tracy opens the door. 

“Oh . . . FUCK!” Aziraphale cries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the rest on Sunday!


	4. Flash Back to the Spring-time! April 9th, 1995

**Flash Back to the Spring-time! April 9th, 1995**

It’s lightly drizzling outside, and the party tent set up on the cliffs overlooking the Sheringham beach is crowded with Michael and Beelzebub’s friends, some family, and a lot of coworkers. Electric heaters hum in the corners of the tent, blowing warm air to ward off the early spring chill. “Do you, Michael, take Beezelbub, to be your lawful wedded partner? To have and to hold, for richer and for poorer, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?”

Aziraphale blinks several times, and swallows back a lump in his throat. He can’t believe he’s getting choked up at Michael’s wedding! Xe spends so much of xir time purposefully needling him and he spends so much of his time being annoyed at xir, and yet . . . he can’t quite believe xe is getting married. It seems like just yesterday they were kids in second form making up silly nicknames for the headmaster and trying to figure out why everyone was so excited about the opposite sex all of a sudden. Late bloomers, both of them. He remembers coming out to Michael a few years later and being so afraid that xe would never speak to him again. Instead xe’d laughed. “Well of course you are, dear. I knew that ages ago.” It made him feel instantly comfortable and instantly irritated (a constant of life with Michael). How dare xe know before he did! 

But now xe is getting married! 

Michael and Bee light the union candle and smile warmly at each other as the officiant continues the ceremony. Aziraphale sniffs, trying to hold back the tears forming at the corners of his eyes. They spill over as he watches them lean forward and kiss in front of the candle. He’s so happy for them, he really is . . . but he is also so sad for himself. He’s almost forty-five, and never a trip down the aisle for him. There isn’t even anyone on the horizon– save for Bee’s little brother– and Aziraphale has been so busy with the remodeling and the insurance that he hasn’t really had time to call the man again!

_ He could have called you _ , a niggling voice in the back of Aziraphale’s mind complains.  _ He didn’t. _ Aziraphale sniffs hard.  _ You can’t expect them all to chase you, _ Tracy told him . . . oh–- six weeks ago? Two months? Whatever that night was that she’d met him at the shop and forced him to the pub for a drink before bed. Tracy grips his arm and forces a tissue into his left hand. “They are so beautiful together,” Tracy says. 

Aziraphale agrees. Michael and Beelzebub are stunning in their matching suits, one black, one white. They have matching electric blue cravats. 

The officiant has them turn to face the crowd. “Gentlepersons, I present to you Michael and Beelzebub Neveahdnalleh. What God hath joined together let no one tear asunder.” 

Aziraphale and Tracy both stand with the group and clap vigorously. Aziraphale is genuinely proud of the person he thinks of as his sibling from another fling. The ceremony was wonderful– traditional and formal enough to lend gravity to the ceremony and yet unique and inspiring enough to be all their own. Xe must have spent a lot of time agonizing over all the details. Aziraphale feels a bit of regret that he wasn’t able to be more actively involved in helping out, but reminds himself about how crazy he’s been with the store and the renovations. He and Michael haven’t directly talked about it all, but he hopes xe understands. 

Michael and Bee walk down the aisle in a shower of rice. They look radiantly happy, like angels. The guests begin to stretch, move, and talk among themselves.

Aziraphale and Tracy sit back down together, letting everyone else drift away. “They’re going to be very happy,” Aziraphale says to Tracy. “Look how in tune they are with each other.” He nods towards the back of the tent where Bee and Michael pose for a photo in the entrance framed by the red and spray-painted gold rose covered trellis. They seem to know exactly how to stand, what poses to strike, when the other is about to make a silly gesture. 

Tracy pats his hand. “Your time will come, dearie. Look how long it took for me and Mr. S.”

Aziraphale coughs. “Tracy, my dear, you’re still not married!”

She sits up a bit straighter. “I know. I don’t want to be married. I’m just saying, it doesn’t come fast. I kissed a lot of frogs and even lived in their swamps for a while before I realized I didn’t want to ever do it again.” 

He shakes his head slightly. “I suppose,” he murmurs. “Right now I don’t even have any frogs on the horizon. Not that I would have time for finding out if they’re princes or not.”

Tracy smiles. “You’re at a wedding, dear. This is where one-night stands are born!”

Aziraphale scoffs. “My dear woman, I am not now, nor have I ever been interested in a one-night stand.”

She giggles at his prudishness and pats his knee. “Well there’s a first time for everything. Come on, duck, let’s go get a drink. Maybe there’s a hopeless romantic like yourself here.” 

The bar is mobbed, so Aziraphale offers to get them drinks. He’s standing on the outskirts of the fray, waiting for someone to swan off with their booze and free up a space when a familiar voice says, “Hello, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale startles a bit, then turns as Crowley sidles up beside him. Crowley is dressed in a black uniform and a white waiter’s jacket. He is more stunning in the daylight than Aziraphale remembers. Aziraphale swallows and nods his head, trying to pretend he hasn’t spent the past few months dreaming about their snogging session and wondering where it might have led if they hadn’t been interrupted. “Crowley,” he says primly. He clasps his hands together nervously. “Or, do you prefer Anthony?” 

“Crowley, please. Anthony is our father, the wanker.” 

“I take it he’s not here?” 

“Oh, he’s here all right. He’s pissed he didn’t get to walk Bee down the aisle, despite the fact that I told him over and over they weren’t doing that tradition.” 

“ _ You _ told him?”

Crowley snorts. “Half the time I think that’s the entire reason Bee hired me. In addition to planning the practicalities, I can also plan for the personalities in our family.” 

“Mr. Crowley?” A young woman in a waitress’s uniform approaches. “Should we put the appetizers out now?” 

Crowley turns his head to survey the room through his dark glasses. Aziraphale is wondering what he’s looking for. Bee and Michael have taken advantage of the momentary break in the weather to get some photos outside of the tent overlooking the ocean. Aziraphale follows his gaze, but can’t see anything out of the ordinary. 

Crowley turns back to the waitress. “Yeah, I think so. Start with the vegetable plates, then wait about 5 minutes before bringing out the hot appetizers. Fruit and cheese come last.” 

She nods and disappears into the throng of people. 

“I rather like fruit,” Aziraphale says. “Pears are my favorite.”

“Vegetables are always ignored. If you put them out first, you have a higher chance of there being very little left over by the end of the night. Also, our dad loves raw veggies and has already had three drinks. He’s currently talking to Bee’s ex-girlfriend, and has been for the past ten minutes. Dagon is a vegetarian and she was done talking to Dad before they started, so she will try to lose him at the appetizer table. Vegetables have a high water content, so they’ll help hydrate him, and distract him so he leaves Dagon alone.” 

“You seem very good at your job,” Aziraphale says, for want of anything else to say. 

Crowley shifts his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Too good, I guess. I’m so busy I’ve missed all of your calls.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to feel uncomfortable now. “Actually, I, well. . . I just called the one time.”

Crowley’s jaw works. “I see.”

“There was a water main break at my shop, you see. Just the day after I left you a message. And I– well, I’ve hardly been home since. I lost half my stock and dealing with insurance has been an absolute nightmare, and I had to take out a loan to get repairs started because I don’t have that much capital in hand, and I had to expand my hours and let go of the two part-timers I hired–”

Crowley reaches out and pats Aziraphale’s shoulder gently. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he says. “Look, I had a great time with you on New Year’s, and it doesn’t have to be more than that. If you never want to talk to me again-”

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale rushes in before Crowley can finish. “No, I– I very much want to talk to you again. I want to see you again, I just really haven’t had a moment’s peace, but I absolutely do want to.” 

Crowley peers at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses. “I tried calling you every week. It just rings and rings.”

Aziraphale smiles weakly. “I’m at the shop, my dear.”

“You need to invest in an answering machine, then.” 

“I had one. But the store’s machine was ruined in the flood. So I brought my personal one to the store.” He shrugs, embarrassed. “You called every week?”

“Every week. Although, I’m guessing we passed like ships in the night. Event planning is a tricky business sometimes. A lot of work and stress and strange hours.”

“Bookselling in the aftermath of a great flood is quite the same. The destruction to the shop was nearly catastrophic. I’m surprised God didn’t put up a rainbow afterwards.” 

Crowley grins. “Probably for the best. I hear you’re not as open about that kind of thing as some other folks are.”

Aziraphale giggles. “You know, I have to be a bit covert about fighting the man with my independent bookstore.” 

Crowley chuckles. Then he leans forward and abruptly kisses Aziraphale on the mouth. Just a soft, sweet kiss. “Have dinner with me next week,” he murmurs against Aziraphale’s lips. “Please.” 

Aziraphale’s head feels full of cotton candy. His heart is singing. “When?” he asks. 

Crowley pulls out a small daily planner from his pocket. “Saturday?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Can’t. I have a big shipment coming in that night and I’ll need to restock. What about the week after? Friday?” 

Crowley pages through and shakes his head. “I have dinner with two of Bee’s corporate shill friends who want me to plan their baby shower. What about a Thursday?”

“Thursdays are book club nights at the shop. I can’t skip one, it brings in so much business for me. Tuesday?”

“Which Tuesday? This one or the one after?”

“The one after, I can’t make this Tuesday, I have an author signing that evening.”

“Tuesday the 27th?” Crowley sucks in a breath between his teeth. “Got an engagement party in Edinburgh that week. I’ll be in Scotland from the 20th to May 5th preparing. The bride wants photos on a horse, of all things, and the groom’s mother has equinophobia. What about–”

“Mr. Crowley?” The waitress is back again. “We’ve put out the vegetable tray and the hot appetizers, but there’s a man requesting to speak with you. He says the little sausages are too spicy and he thinks we need a sign up to warn the older folks so it doesn’t drive up their blood pressure–”

“Oh no, it’s Newt,” Crowley groans. “I thought he wasn’t coming. He didn’t RSVP! I don’t have a place for him to sit!” 

“Do you want me to tell him to leave?” the waitress asks. 

“No! No, no, no. You don’t tell him anything just, uhm . . . tell him . . .” Crowley sighs. “Tell him I’ll be with him in a few minutes.” The waitress nods and disappears in the crowd. Crowley turns to Aziraphale. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale, but–”

Aziraphale smiles and shakes his head. “No worries, my dear. I can see you’re busy. I understand entirely what it’s like to have a job that consumes you from time to time. We can pick this up later.”

Crowley’s mouth sets in a grim line. “Yeah, later.”

Aziraphale realizes how that sounds and reaches out to take Crowley’s hand before he leaves. “I mean it, Crowley.” He smiles. “We have an arrangement now. I’ll call you, and . . . you can call my shop. It’s in Soho. AZ Fell’s Books and Antiquities.” He plucks Crowley’s planner from his hands and writes the number for the bookshop in the space under today’s date. 

Crowley looks a bit brighter at this. “All right, angel. We’ll keep in touch.”

Aziraphale watches him glide away towards a rather anxious looking young man near the appetizer table. He has never wanted a one-night stand, but he wishes fervently that Crowley would be keeping him company tonight. 

“Keep in touch,” he murmurs. 


	5. Didn’t of Course, ‘Til Summertime…. July 17th, 1995

**Didn’t of Course, ‘Til Summertime…. July 17th, 1995**

The phone is ringing. Aziraphale instinctively reaches to answer it and makes a gasp of pain that draws alarmed stares from the customers in the shop. As if they could be more alarmed, when the shopkeeper looks like a lobster dinner. The trip to the shore with Michael had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Tracy had promised to look after the shop for the day, the workmen had taken some kind of holiday because they had just finished “taping and mudding” and it needed to “cure”, and Aziraphale hadn’t seen Michael since xir wedding, which was really too long. He had missed xir. And they’d had a wonderful day together drinking wine and relaxing on the beach. Michael had been great listening to him go on and on about the renovations to the shop and the difficulties he’d had with the insurance companies, and he had been excited to hear about xir plans to start up a new business. He’d even been happy to hear about Bee (mercifully xe had kept some of the honeymoon details to xyrself), even if he had been dying to ask xir if xe ever saw Bee’s little brother, and how he was doing, and, oh, he was still single, right? To which Michael had replied that no, since Crowley was extremely busy with his work, xe hadn’t seen him lately, and if Aziraphale was so interested in what Crowley was doing, he should just set aside some time and take him to dinner. 

_ You’ve got to go after what you want, Aziraphale. _

I did, he thinks, but we just keep missing each other.

It would be comical, if it didn’t make him so sad. He had rung Crowley up two days after the wedding. He had actually gotten ahold of the man and they had chatted for about 15 minutes before one of the workmen in Aziraphale’s shop yelled for Mr. Fell because there was a snake in the shop and he wanted to know if it was a pet before he killed it. 

Aziraphale’s bookshop now had a pet snake (the thought of killing anything, let alone a snake, in his shop, made Aziraphale nauseous). Aziraphale, unfortunately, still did not have a date with Crowley.

Crowley called the shop a few days later and left a message while Aziraphale was helping one of his regular customers find a book. When Aziraphale had time to call him back late that night, Crowley’s answering machine picked up. Crowley called again a week later, but had to keep it short: he'd been called to Edinburgh early and the long-distance charges were outrageous. 

It went back and forth like this for the next two and a half months. 

They had managed to catch each other, of course. Short conversations, snuck in between the busy details of their lives. Ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there. But their schedules never aligned for a dinner, a lunch, or anything else more substantial. And there was always some emergency or appointment or customer or something that kept them from enjoying a longer conversation.

Aziraphale learned that Crowley had a fancy car he adored, enjoyed wine, and had started his own event planning business recently, which he was sacrificing everything from a personal standpoint to keep afloat. Aziraphale could sympathize. His business was over the five year ‘sink or swim’ mark, but the flood had brought him back in the red for the past two quarters, thanks to insurance dragging their heels. 

Aziraphale’s entire arm is red. And his face. His back, his chest, his legs. With so much going on in his mind, he’d completely forgotten sunscreen during his lovely mid-week day off with Michael and come home with a second-degree sunburn. 

His skin is bright red and horribly painful. Every place where fabric touches his skin feels like agony. Tracy has tried to convince him to take the day off, but the business is still in the red from the flood, and besides the workmen were supposed to be sanding today, and he doesn’t think they’ll remember to dust off their trousers before they use the easy chairs set aside for customers for their tea breaks. 

Aziraphale brings the phone close to his ear (not touching, that would be painful) and says in the most pleasant voice he can muster, “AZ Fell’s Books and Antiquities”. 

“Aziraphale!” It’s Crowley. 

Aziraphale smiles, winces at the pain, and makes a soughing noise. “Crow . . ley,” he says. “Good to hear from you!”

“Are you all right? You sound . . . odd.”

“What? Oh, yes, fine, fine.” He turns away from his customers. “Just, uh, happy to hear your voice. How was France?” 

“Had a bit of a ruckus at the reception– a minor fight between two executives, but it had been brewing for weeks, I’m told, and I was able to step in and get things settled before anyone came to blows. Bee’s boss was very happy with everything. I think they’re going to bring me on to do their office Christmas party this year.”

Aziraphale smiles, winces again. “Oh that’s wonderful for you, my dear!”

“And– get this– one of Michael’s former co-workers reached out to me about a Halloween event and Guy Fawkes day. I’ve never worked with a pyrotechnic company before. Should be exciting.” 

“That’s truly wonderful, Crowley. You’ll be turning a profit in no time!” 

“Hopefully. How’s the shop?”

Aziraphale hears the whine of an electric sander start up again. Break time is over. “Still standing, and getting closer to being fully functional. They’re sanding drywall today.” 

Crowley chuckles at the other end of the line. “I can hear. Sounds very peaceful. Listen, I was wondering if you’re free this weekend?”

“This weekend?” Aziraphale asks. He looks at the calendar. It’s already Friday. “You mean tomorrow?” 

“Yes– Bee invited me to a shindig on their boat. Lots of their colleagues will be there, it’s a great time for me to schmooze with the boss and try to land the Christmas party.”

“I see,” Aziraphale says, cautiously. 

“Anyway, I thought maybe we could mix business and pleasure? Apparently, everyone can bring a plus one.” 

Aziraphale closes his eyes. He pictures himself on Crowley’s arm. He wouldn’t know any of Bee’s colleagues, of course, but he could always latch onto Michael while Crowley talked shop. He’d enjoyed his time with xir earlier in the week. And he would get to spend time with Crowley. They could talk, drink, get to know one another better. Finally. A real date. What could he wear? Something loose, obviously. He’s burned so very badly-

_ Oh. _ Reality comes crashing down on him. He can’t go on a date! He can barely move. Walking to a boat. And would there be swimming? The idea of subjecting his lobster-red skin to the sun is agonizing. He’ll end up in hospital, for sure. “Crowley, I . . . I would love to, but I can’t.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, disappointment evident in his tone. “Got other plans, do you?”

Aziraphale swallows. His Adam’s apple rustles against his shirt collar. It hurts. “No, and I really would love to, but I . . . well, I’m . . “ he tries to think of a way to phrase this that doesn’t make him sound like a complete idiot and a nightmare to date. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh. You sound all right,” Crowley says. 

“Excuse me?” a voice behind him queries. Aziraphale turns abruptly and makes an undignified squeaking noise as the cord for the phone wraps around his middle, pressing painfully into his sunburned skin. The young man holding up a copy of  _ Red Dragon _ blanches at Aziraphale’s expression. Aziraphale tries to smile, at the man, winces, and then grits his teeth to smile through the pain. The young man looks a bit fearful now. He holds up one finger and nods. Every movement is agonizing. 

“It’s uhm . . ahh. . . it’s just-”

“Are you all right, Aziraphale?” Crowley sounds concerned. “Do you need a doctor?” 

Aziraphale unwinds the cord from himself by turning in a circle. He sighs. This is so exhausting. He can hear the whine of the electric sander again. “No, Crowley, it’s just a very very bad sunburn,” he says irritably. Then he brings his hand up automatically to cover his mouth, and a little moan escapes his lips as skin touches skin, bringing a fresh wave of pain and humiliation. Stupid! Crowley is going to think he’s such an idiot . . . what kind of a man can’t go out on a date he’s been trying to schedule for six months because he’s given himself a second degree sunburn? 

“A sunburn? It must be pretty awful.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “It is utter agony, dear boy.” 

“Why on earth are you at the shop, angel?”

“Because!” Aziraphale pauses.  _ Because the shop is in the red! Because this is my livelihood! Because there’s so much to do and so little time to do it! All the time! _ He feels on the verge of tears. His body feels like it’s on fire. The young man with the copy of  _ Red Dragon _ has taken a few steps away, and is looking at his watch. “I’m sorry, Crowley, I have to go now, I have customers waiting. I’ll call you again soon.” He hangs up before saying goodbye and tries not to wince as he beckons the man forward. 

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Tracy and Michael burst into the shop. 

“Aziraphale!” Michael cries, horrified at his appearance. “You poor dear.” Xe barges behind the counter. Xe reaches out a hand and then draws back as Aziraphale shudders. “You shouldn’t be here. Tracy, he should be at home.”

Tracy crosses her arms and purses her lips. “That’s what I told him when he picked up the keys from me this morning. He looks like a seafood dinner.” 

Aziraphale scoffs, but moving his face is painful so he winces again. “I do not!”

Michael bustles behind him, finds his keys under the counter. “Aziraphale, it’s time for you to go home.” Xe holds out his keys to him. “Now.” 

“But I can’t!” Aziraphale cries. “There’s still customers-” Said customers hurriedly turn their heads away from the till drama as he gestures at them. “And there’s still renovations.” As if on cue, the whine of the sander starts up again. 

“We’ll take care of it,” Michael says defiantly. 

“What? But you don’t know how–”

“I do,” Tracy says. She waves a hand at him and smiles cheekily. “Remember? You left me in charge yesterday?” 

“But the renovations were on hold-”

“I’ll handle the renovations,” Michael says. Xe raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him, as if daring him to say that xe can’t handle it. 

Aziraphale looks between the two of them. “Someone has to feed Crawly,” he says meekly. He gestures painfully to the small glass terrarium on the shelf behind him. “He eats three mice a week.” 

The door to the shop opens and Crowley stalks in, a paper bag clutched in one hand. He thrusts it out to Michael. “Dinner for the snake,” he says by way of greeting. He looks up at Aziraphale. “I’ve got paracetamol and aloe vera gel in the car. The aircon is cranked. Let’s get you home and comfortable.”

Aziraphale looks around. Outnumbered. Three redheads to one very red blonde. He takes his keys from Michael and follows Crowley to the door. 

* * *

The ride to Aziraphale’s flat is scarily, but mercifully short. Crowley doesn’t say much. Aziraphale is so very happy to see him, and so very ashamed that it’s under these circumstances. The aircon makes the interior positively chilly. Aziraphale thinks idly that Crowley must pay a fortune in petrol. 

“How did you get Michael and Tracy to show up?”

“Didn’t,” Crowley admits as he turns onto Aziraphale’s street. “Michael called me. Wanted to find out if you were coming to the boat. Xe was livid when I told xir you’d said no.”

A parking space miraculously opens up and Crowley fits the car into the spot like pouring water into a glass. Despite the terrifying speeds, the man is a masterful driver. Aziraphale swallows thickly. “Thank you,” he says softly. He unfastens his seatbelt, and goes on to open the door only to find Crowley already there, with the bag from the chemist’s in his hand. 

“Come on, angel, let’s get you comfortable.” He holds out a hand.

Aziraphale sighs, nods, and makes some embarrassing noises as he stands. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “You must think I’m such an utter fool.”

Crowley shakes his head. They begin the slow walk up to Aziraphale’s flat. “I’m amazed Michael let you get away with not wearing any sunscreen. The way xe took charge when I explained what had happened– it was a military operation. Call Tracy! Go to the chemist’s! Paracetamol and aloe vera! Xe could teach some event planners I’ve met a thing or two.”

Aziraphale grimaces as he climbs the stairs. “Xe’s always been like that. Xir father was a marshal in the RAF.” His skin feels like it’s on fire where each fold rubs against his clothes. 

“I believe it.”

At the door to his flat, Crowley takes the keys from Aziraphale’s hands gently, and opens the door for him. Aziraphale swallows hard. His throat feels parched. “Thank you,” he says, as he shuffles in. “I’m afraid I can’t offer much in the way of hospitality,” he says glumly. “And I apologize for the state of things. I’m rarely home.” 

Crowley scoffs. “You should see my place sometime.” 

Aziraphale shuffles awkwardly into his home. He begins to remove his coat, and lets out a gasp. 

“Easy, angel,” Crowley says. “Let me help.” He reaches up and gently slides the coat down and off Aziraphale’s arms. It’s startlingly intimate, and Aziraphale shivers a bit. “Go make yourself comfortable. I’ll get you some water.” Crowley hangs the coat on the coat rack by the door. 

Aziraphale’s flat is cramped and cluttered, but relatively clean. Books cover every available surface. A small kitchenette is blocked off by the rest of the living space by a half wall that doubles as a breakfast bar. A doorway leads to a small bedroom and bathroom. It is to that space that Aziraphale retreats. He unbuttons his cuffs, then his shirt. The flat is stuffy, so he crosses to the windows. He reaches for the latch and gasps in pain. 

“Hold on!” Crowley calls. A moment later the other man is at his side, stuffing a glass of water and some medicine in his hands. “Let me take care of that. Do you want them both open?”

“Yes, please,” Aziraphale says, resigning himself to the humiliation of allowing someone to do mundane tasks for him. He takes the pills and drains the entire glass of water. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. He gingerly pulls off the shirt. Gooseflesh rises on his burned skin. 

Crowley finishes with the windows, and then turns. Aziraphale sees a flicker of something pass over the other man’s face. He tries to stand straighter and suck his gut in a little. He would still like to date Crowley, assuming he hasn’t blown his chances. 

“Do you need help with the aloe vera?” Crowley asks. His voice seems very serious and quiet in the small space. “I mean, getting it on your back.”

Aziraphale shivers. “That’s very kind of you.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not a problem.” He smiles a little too brightly. “I’ll grab the bag from the kitchen.” 

Aziraphale swallows hard. If only he wasn’t so sunburned! If only he’d remembered his sunscreen. But if he wasn’t sunburned, he wouldn’t be standing here in his bedroom with his shirt off, waiting for Crowley to come back-

“All right,” Crowley says, a little too loudly. He opens the bottle of aloe vera and approaches. “Turn ‘round.” 

Aziraphale does as he is asked, hanging his head a bit. He hears a squirt and then feels the lotion on his skin. He gasps. 

“Sorry,” Crowley mutters. 

“No, it– thank you, it– it hurts, but it– it will help.” Aziraphale feels his teeth chatter a little. “Cold.” 

Crowley continues his ministrations, very gently. “This isn’t exactly how I had hoped I’d get to see your bedroom,” he says off-handedly. 

There’s a moment of utter silence, and then they both burst out laughing, full bodied guffaws that go on until Crowley accidentally rests his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and Aziraphale arches away, “Oww!”

“Sorry,” Crowley says again. He chuckles, and then slides more aloe vera onto Aziraphale’s skin. “You have really done a number on yourself.” 

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Aziraphale complains. “This is so embarrassing.” Crowley’s fingers are gentle, but everywhere they touch his back feels like burning fire and then stinging ice. 

“You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about,” Crowley says. There’s a thickness in his voice again. 

“How did you hope you’d be seeing my bedroom?” Aziraphale asks, because his back is turned to Crowley, and he’s feeling unexpectedly brave. 

Crowley paints the back of Aziraphale’s arms with cooling lotion. “Well, I thought I’d end up buying you dinner before I bought dinner for your snake,” he says idly. Aziraphale giggles as Crowley drips lotion onto the back of his neck. 

“Do you still want to have dinner with me?” Aziraphale asks. “After all this?” 

“Of course I still want to have dinner with you. Why wouldn’t I?” 

“I would understand if you didn’t. I must seem like a complete nightmare.” 

“Nah,” Crowley says. His fingertips are moving gently over Aziraphale’s lower back. Aziraphale closes his eyes. The stinging in his back has lessened as the lotion works its magic. “If you weren’t burned to a crisp right now . . . “ Crowley’s words trail off, as he finishes. “Well, I think we could have had a very good time.” 

Aziraphale turns to face him. “You’re not just-”

Crowley leans forward and kisses Aziraphale softly on the mouth, before he can finish his sentence. His tongue glides into Aziraphale’s mouth, and Aziraphale feels his knees weaken. Aziraphale kisses him back, and he finds himself leaning into Crowley, sunburned be damned when Crowley’s watch suddenly beeps. 

Crowley pulls back, lets out a deep breath. “Sorry, angel. That’s my cue to leave. I’ve got to go meet up with a client.” He puts a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and Aziraphale gasps in pain and pulls away. “Sorry, sorry,” Crowley says again. “Probably a better thing that I go, I think.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, probably.” 

“I’ll call you later, all right? Get some rest.” 

Aziraphale nods and watches him go, his heart both full and empty at the same time. 


	6. R - S - V - P: No Thanks! . . . December 24th, 1995

**R - S - V - P: No Thanks! . . . December 24th, 1995**

**8pm.** Aziraphale stands in the doorway to Tracy’s apartment. He’s dropped the bag with her present and the turkey on the floor. He can smell cinnamon candles burning inside and hear the Kinks singing about all the rude things they’d like to do to Father Christmas. 

“Well that’s not exactly Happy Christmas,” she says. “A bit rude, actually.” She’s wearing a tight sequined red dress fringed with white fur around the short hem and revealing v-shaped neckline. 

“Oh, Tracy,” Aziraphale frets. “I slipped on the street and dropped my books and I was so preoccupied I left them there!” He runs a hand through his hair, which is already standing on end. 

Tracy blinks slowly. “You own a bookshop, dear. I’m sure you can get new copies.”

“Yes, but– ahh!” Aziraphale groans as his back tightens again. He scowls. “Oh, this has absolutely been the worst year!” 

“Did you hurt yourself?” Tracy asks. 

Aziraphale practically growls. “Of course I have! I fell flat on my back on the pavement. I’ve ruined this coat. My back keeps doing this awful shuddering thing and it’s just my luck on the one day I’ve planned to just relax and have the whole day to myself to read-” He feels like he’s on the verge of tears. 

Tracy puts a hand on his arm. “Don’t move, duck. You stay right here.” She disappears inside the flat and re-appears a moment later with a cup of coffee and a pill. “Now I’m only going to give you one of these, or you’ll be too sleepy to come to the party. Take it with the coffee, and make sure you don’t have any drinks tonight.”

“Party?” Aziraphale asks as he dutifully takes the pill given to him. He sips the coffee, makes a face. He much prefers tea. “What party?”

Tracy looks down at her outfit and then back up at him. “What do you mean  _ what party _ ? Bee and Michael’s party. The one Bee’s office is holding? Your boyfriend is the event planner. They’re going to announce the partnership with Michael’s new business. Don’t tell me you forgot.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend. We haven’t talked since October and we never even had dinner together,” Aziraphale says irritably. “And I’m not going to any party.” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe of Tracy’s apartment. 

Tracy looks completely flabbergasted. “What? Since when?” 

“Since whenever. I never RSVP’d. I’m not going. I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’ve got my little turkey, and my– well, I  _ had _ my books. I haven’t had a moment to myself this entire year. I just want a little peace and quiet-”

“Peace and quiet! It’s Christmas eve! If any night, this is the night to spend with people who love you. What are you going to do, hole up in your flat eating takeaway sushi?” she tsks. 

“Not at all,” Aziraphale says. He nudges the bag on the floor with his foot. “I bought myself a little turkey. Should cook in about an hour or so. And I got in fresh vegetables and a nice dessert earlier in the week. It’s a feast for one.” He bends over to get her present out of the bag and hisses as his back protests. “Besides, I’ve hurt my back-”

“That’s why I gave you the bloody co-codamol!” she exclaims. “You’ve got to give it at least a few minutes to kick in.”

“I don’t want it to kick in,” he says crossly. Then, “Or rather, I do, but I want to go home and sit in the tub while it does. Now, this is for you.” He holds out her present. The wrapping paper is a bit creased and dented, but the object itself still feels whole beneath his fingers. 

Tracy takes the present from him and purses her lips. “After all Michael’s done for you, and you’re going to miss xir big day?”

Aziraphale’s jaw drops. “Tracy! Xir big day was in the Spring. You sat next to me! This is a . . . a work obligation! I don’t even know why xe invited everyone. I didn’t invite everyone to the grand re-opening of the shop!” 

Tracy sniffs. “I came to the re-opening, and so did Michael. And all you did was put a balloon outside and offer free cups of tea.” 

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just saying, xe went to a lot of trouble-”

“You mean Crowley went to a lot of trouble. Michael just put out a lot of money.”

“Aziraphale Fell!” Tracy says, shocked. “What’s gotten into you? You’ll be lucky if three ghosts don’t visit you tonight.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Tracy, my dear, I appreciate the sentiment, but I really just want to be left alone.”

“All alone? On Christmas eve?”

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, Tracy. I haven’t really had a moment to myself all year.”  _ Except for that night,  _ he thinks. When he could have been  _ not _ alone, if only . . . 


	7. Same Guy Called, Halloween Party. . . . October 9th, 1995

**Same Guy Called, Halloween Party. . . . October 9th, 1995**

8:15 pm

Aziraphale pushes his way through the throng of people in costumes to the bar. His wings, irritating though they were to get on, are helping quite a bit. At least he has plenty of elbow room. He holds up a finger and the bartender nods at him while putting the finishing touches on a round of lemon drops. The pub is packed with people in every conceivable type of fancy dress costume. A banner in the back reads “Congratulations Anathema!”. Paper cutouts of witches on broomsticks wearing union jack shirts dangle from the ceiling. 

“Aziraphale, you’re adorable!” An arm slinks around his waist. 

He turns and gives a surprised smile at Tracy, who’s sidled up and is touching all his costume pieces: the wings, the white linen robe, the halo. She’s dyed her hair bright blonde for the evening and is wearing a white Maryiln Monroe style dress. She looks stunning. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks her over the din. 

“I could ask the same thing of you! I thought you were spending the night in to  celebrate.”

“I was, but-”

“What’s for you, angel?” the bartender interrupts. 

Aziraphale colors visibly. That name sounds a lot less embarrassing when Crowley says it. “Whiskey sour, please. And . . . uh. . .” he turns to Tracy inquiringly. 

“Make it two,” she says. Turning back to Aziraphale, “So do you know Newt? Or Anathema?” 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Neither, really. I’m the plus one.”

Tracy’s eyes light up. “You are? For who?”

He smiles shyly. “Crowley.” 

She grins. “You’re finally on a proper date! That’s fantastic! Where is he?” She turns to look back over the crowd. 

“Well, he’s not here yet,” Aziraphale hums. “He rang this morning and asked if I wanted to come to a fancy dress party for a friend of his who just got citizenship papers. He said he would be driving back from Leeds tonight, so we’re supposed to meet here.” 

Tracy pouts. “So busy, the two of you. You can’t squeeze a love life into all the cracks and crevices that are leftover when you’re not working. You’ve got to make a commitment to it.” 

The bartender returns with their drinks. Aziraphale searches through his robes for his wallet, and digs out enough cash to cover both of them. “We do talk on the phone quite a bit,” Aziraphale says as they move away from the bar, drinks in hand. “It’s just so hard to actually see each other in person.” 

“Talking on the phone is not a relationship,” she says. “And it doesn’t get you laid.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Not everything is about that.” They hover near the entrance to the pub. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t take him to bed when you last saw him.”

“I was burned within an inch of my life!”

“He came roaring into the shop with all the things you needed and his fancy car outside and I’ll tell you my heart skipped a few beats. Talk about a knight in shining armor.”

Aziraphale sips his drink. “Yes,” he admits, smiling. “It was a bit like that.” He looks at his watch. “He was supposed to be here an hour ago, though.” 

Tracy looks around. “There are a lot of blokes with masks on— is it possible you missed him?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, I told him I’d be dressed up like an angel. It’s uh . . . a joke. A private joke.”

Tracy snorts. “Takes all kinds, I suppose.”

“Why are you here? And, you look gorgeous as usual, by the way,” Aziraphale says.

Tracy smiles. “Thank you, darling. Newt works for Mister S. He’s Anathema’s boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Small world we live in sometimes.” He checks his watch again. “I’m glad to see a familiar face. Been on my own here.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up. It is quite a drive from Leeds.”

“Not the way Crowley drives. . .”

* * *

9:17 pm

Aziraphale’s stomach is in knots. What could be keeping Crowley? Tracy had gone off to chat with Newt and Shadwell a while ago. And it wasn’t fair of Aziraphale to monopolize her time anyway. She knows quite a few people at this party. Unlike him. 

Aziraphale tries not to think of how recklessly Crowley drives, his mind conjuring up pictures from films of twisted metal wreckage and vehicles engulfed in flames. 

* * *

10:48 pm

Aziraphale sits at the bar, downing the remainder of his fifth whiskey sour. His halo lies discarded next to the remains of a fish and chip meal that hadn’t been very good. Or maybe he just wasn’t in the right frame of mind. He looks over his shoulder every time he hears the bell above the door ring. It’s never Crowley.

“Hello angel.”

Aziraphale looks up and sees the bartender who poured him the first drink. He looks down at his empty glass. “I think I’m done for the night,” he says. 

The bartender leans in conspiratorially. “Actually . . . I was wondering if you’d like some company. It’s obvious you’ve been stood up, and quite honestly, it’s their loss, mate. My shift ends in about ten minutes.”

Aziraphale assesses the bartender. He’s a bit young, maybe closer to thirty than forty. Dark black hair in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Neatly trimmed goatee, flannel shirt. Not bad looking by any stretch of the imagination.  _ But not Crowley, _ Aziraphale thinks. “That’s very kind of you,” he says, giving a wan smile. “But I think I’m just going to go home now. It’s been a very long evening.” 

The bartender nods sympathetically. “You waited an awful long time. They must be important to you.” 

Aziraphale swallows past a lump in his throat. “Yes, well . . . just never seems to work out for us.” 

“He’s stood you up before?” the bartender asks, then smiles. “I’m assuming he, anyway.”

Aziaphale nods miserably. “Not stood me up, but we’re both so busy, and then when everything does align, and we do make plans . . . things like this happen.”

“Not meant to be, perhaps.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Perhaps not.” A patron at the other end of the bar calls the bartender away. 

Aziraphale digs out his wallet and lays the money for his meal and drink on the counter. Anathema’s citizenship party is winding down. Most folks have either left for the night or are deeply engaged with their conversation partners. Aziraphale feels very lonely. He grabs his halo and heads for the door.

* * *

11:30pm 

The phone is ringing when Aziraphale opens the door to his flat. He stumbles on the hem of his robe as he practically runs for the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Aziraphale!” It’s Crowley. Aziraphale feels his temper flare. “Did you just get home now? I’ve been calling and calling.” 

Aziraphale is irritated. “Yes, I did just get home now. I waited at the bloody pub for 4 hours, Crowley!”

“There was a huge accident on the M1 outside Leicester. I got off the highway, hoping it would be quicker, but the car broke down, and then I was stuck on this back road in the middle of nowhere. I walked for who knows how many miles before someone took pity on me and picked me up. I’m in Naseby and I’m going to be stuck here until I can find a repair shop that can fix my car.” 

The whole story is so awful and ludicrous. Of course it’s true. And of course, it would have to happen to them. Maybe the bartender was right. Maybe this isn’t meant to be. Aziraphale tries to tamp down on his temper. It sounds like Crowley has had a miserable night too. “That’s very unfortunate.” 

“Angel, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “I’m very tired, Crowley. I was at the pub for a long time.” 

“I tried to call, but I couldn’t remember the name of the pub–” 

“It doesn’t matter much at this point,” Aziraphale interrupts. “The evening is done.”

“You sound upset–”

“I am!” Aziraphale practically shouts. “I am very, very upset, and I don’t want to talk right now. I don’t know if I want to talk ever again. Talking on the phone is not a relationship.” 

Crowley is silent on the other end of the line. Then, “Look, angel, this isn’t how I wanted us to spend the evening, either–”

The word  _ us _ makes him see red. “No!” Aziraphale says firmly. “There is no  _ us _ Crowley. Not anymore. This isn’t meant to be, we can’t keep kidding ourselves and I can’t keep getting my hopes up every time the phone rings. There isn’t going to be a ‘right time’. There’s only this time- the time we don’t have together. It’s not meant to be. I’m sorry, Crowley. It’s over. Please don’t call me again.”

“Aziraphale, wait–”

Aziraphale hangs up before Crowley can finish. He spends the rest of the night in tears. 


	8. A Very Happy Ending. . . December 24, 1995

**A Very Happy Ending. . . December 24**

Tracy closes the door after Aziraphale leaves. She sets the still-wrapped present aside, turns down the music and hurries to the phone. It takes her a few minutes to get through to Michael at the launch party. Tracy can hear the sound of music in the background, the clink of glasses. 

“Yes, hello?” Michael says. 

Tracy takes a deep breath. “Michael, it’s Tracy. We appear to have a little kink in tonight’s plans. And I’m not talking about the good kind of kink, sweetheart.” 

“What happened?”

“Aziraphale just came by my apartment to  _ drop off  _ my Christmas present– because he’s decided he’s not coming to the party!”

Michael sighs. “I thought we talked about this– you were going to convince him–”

“I can convince him, but I can’t convince his back. He’s thrown it out, poor thing. And he’s in a foul mood. I gave him some co-codamol and sent him to his flat, but he’s in no shape for a party.” 

“Damn.” Tracy can hear some shuffling on the other end of the line. Bee’s voice. “What the bloody hell is wrong now? All he had to do was go home to change his coat, clumsy-”

Michael is back on the line. “Tracy? Is he going to stay in his apartment all night? Does he need to go to hospital?”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know that I can get him to come to the party. And he did not sound very happy about Crowley being there. I think they had some kind of falling out. He said Crowley’s not his boyfriend and they haven’t spoken in months.”

There’s a muffled rustling on the other end of the line and then Bee’s voice practically shouts in Tracy’s ear. “What the bloody fuck has that idiot brother of mine done now?”

“I don’t know, dear,” Tracy says, “but it seems he did it quite a while ago, and we all missed the memo.” 

“I did not go to all this bloody trouble for these two idiots to screw it up!” Bee says. 

“The trouble  _ you _ went to, dear? Both of us have been working on this for quite a long time,” Michael says primly.

Tracy sighs. “I know, but I’m not sure what we can do at this point. He’s a great big Scrooge tonight. Says all he wants to do is sit in the bath and read a book. And he was very upset because apparently he lost all the books he was planning to read.”

There’s some rustling and muffled arguing. Then Michael is back. “Tracy, he’s in his apartment now, you say?” 

Tracy recognizes that tone in Michael’s voice. “He is. . . . what’s the plan?” 

* * *

9:36pm

Aziraphale stares at his bathroom ceiling and sighs. The co-codamol has finally kicked in, and the steaming bathwater is relieving the pain in his aching back. He’s drinking a glass of wine (Tracy’s advice be damned– a single glass will not hurt him). He can distantly smell the turkey roasting in the oven. His apartment is quiet and peaceful. His perfect night in, at last. A silent night. 

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. 

Aziraphale ignores it. The machine will pick up. Probably Michael, trying to guilt him into coming to xir stupid party.  _ Well, xe can forget it,  _ he thinks. Xe has Bee to support xir, anyway. 

He closes his eyes, hums softly to himself. What an absolute nightmare of a year, he thinks. It started out so well, snogging a handsome stranger on New Year’s Eve . . .

The phone rings again. And again. 

Aziraphale turns his head towards the bathroom door. The machine should have picked up. Unless Michael is trying to annoy him into answering by ringing constantly. Although that’s not really xir style. Come to think of it, Michael would probably just want to guilt trip him afterwards. Xe would be having too good a time during it to notice he wasn’t there . . . 

The phone goes silent. Aziraphale waits to hear the click of his answering machine. 

Instead, the phone rings again. 

“Oh, honestly,” he scowls. He sets down his wine glass, and lifts himself out of the tub. He pulls on a tartan robe and slippers and stalks to his living room. He picks up the handset. “Yes, hello?” he asks. 

There’s some muffled sounds and a sound like television static. 

“Hello?” Aziraphale asks again, annoyed.

“Aziraphale Fell!” a strange voice comes over the line. There’s more static sounds and a strange humming noise. 

“Yes, speaking,” he says. He places a hand to the small of his back and stretches slightly. His limbs feel loose and limber. 

“Aziraphale Fell, this is the g- ghost of Christmas past!” the strange voice says. Aziraphale can hear muffled noises in the background and– that is definitely the sound of a lorry.

“I’m sorry, who is this?” Aziraphale says, although he heard the voice quite clearly. Ghost of Christmas past indeed! “Is this some kind of joke?”

“You have spent the past year counting your books and . . . uh. . “ the voice sounds nervous. There’s more strange static and some muffled sounds. Multiple voices. “Uh, you have spent the past year wrapped up in your books and your work!” 

Aziraphale snorts. “Who is this? Who put you up to this?” 

More static. “You must change your ways!”

Aziraphale sighs. “Well, it’s not quite the new year yet, so it’s a bit early to make any resolutions.” He hangs up. What on earth is Michael playing at? Is this some kind of ploy to get him to come to the party? 

He re-wraps his robe around himself and goes to check on the turkey. 

He’s just shutting the oven door again when there’s a knock on the door. 

_ So much for a quiet night,  _ he thinks. He crosses to the front door and opens it. 

Tracy stands there in her sequined dress. She’s got a white fur stole around her shoulders and . . . 

“Tracy, my dear, why are you wearing a cheese cloth on your head?” Aziraphale asks. 

“I am the ghost of Christmas present,” she says. She lifts her arms out to the side and waves them, then winks at him. 

Aziraphale sighs. “Did Michael put you up to this?”

“Look, just play along,” she says in a low voice.

“Why on earth should I?”

Tracy raises her voice again. “There is one who is as alone as you are tonight, as you sit in your flat,  _ alone, by yourself _ , counting your– well, you’re not really counting your books, because you lost them– but counting your profits!”

“I barely broke even this year!” Aziraphale complains. 

“You have known great anger, and uhm. . . and pain! Great pain! A great sun burned you! A great love has not spoken with you, due to the nature of our fast-paced modern lives–” 

“And now you want me to reform my ways and come to Michael’s big party, hmm?” Aziraphale asks. He is supremely annoyed. 

“You must forgive! And forget!” Tracy is reading off a small piece of paper in her hand. “And uhm . . you must . . . lean? You must get lean? Oh Michael, that’s rudel!” Tracy looks to her right. 

Aziraphale hears Michael’s voice echo down the hall in a stage whisper. “It says learn! Learn to give of your time-”

“Honestly!” Aziraphale says in a loud voice. He pushes Tracy aside and looks down the hall. Michael stands a few feet away, leaning against the wall. Xe is still dressed in xir immaculate gold and white party outfit. Xe has a very large cordless phone in xir hands.“Is this all because I won’t come to your party?” 

At the other end of the hall, the door to the stairwell opens and Crowley stumbles into the hallway, Bee pushing him from behind. He’s wearing a striking black suit and an overlarge top hat with mistletoe pinned to the brim. 

“I’m supposed to be monitoring the canapes, and he doesn’t want to talk to me, Bee–” 

“He’s going to!” they say. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims. “Did you- what–”

Crowley’s eyes go wide as he takes in the scene before him– Tracy, wearing a sexy sequined dress and a cheese cloth, Michael in xir elegant party attire, and Aziraphale, wet from the bath, in his tartan bathrobe. “This was not my idea, angel–”

Michael claps xir hands suddenly. “And look, here’s the ghost of Christmas future. He’s now got an angel investor who has given him seed money for the next three years so he can hire on some help.”

“I’ve got what?’ Crowley asks. 

Bee clears their throat. Everyone turns to look at them at the other end of the hall. “You also have a year-long contract with my company,” Bee offers up. “Crowley will be in charge of every event in 1996, from our corporate breakfasts to the Christmas party.” 

Crowley gapes. “You– you did–”

“So you’ll be in town all year,” Bee growls. 

“And available for plenty of dinners,” Michael puts in. 

“And I will be hosting all the book club nights!” Tracy says as she triumphantly pulls the cheesecloth off her face. “Michael has hired me to work for xir company, and my first assignment is to be your part time assistant. Frankly, I could use the money, Mr. S. wants to go on holiday to Scotland and I need to save up.” 

Aziraphale feels a lump in his throat. He’s not sure why, but he’s about to cry. 

“What about the corporate Christmas party?” Crowley asks. “I’m supposed to be there right now for clean up–”

“Not tonight,” Bee says. “I negotiated new terms with the venue. Your obligations ended thirty minutes ago.” 

“Michael, I can’t believe this!” Aziraphale says. He’s grinning. Tears are forming at the corner of his eyes. “It’s Christmas magic!” He’s taken three steps down the hall and embraced xem. Michael hugs him back, a smile on xir face. 

“I’ve got a lot of money,” xe says softly. “But only one brother from another mother.” 

Crowley looks at Bee. “I don’t suppose you want me to hug you.”

“Don’t you dare,” they spit. 

Tracy squeals and claps her hands. “Ooh, that’s so cute! All right, now, that’s enough, we’re all going to leave, right?” she says. She shimmies down the hall and grabs Bee and Crowley’s hands, pulling them up the hall. She leaves Crowley at the door to Aziraphale’s flat and then pulls Aziraphale from Michael’s embrace. She turns him around and practically shoves him towards Crowley. “We’re all going to the party. Free drinks and fun! And you two are going to have a nice quiet evening together, all right?” 

In a few minutes, Tracy has bustled herself, Bee, and Michael out of the hall and down the stairs. Crowley and Aziraphale are alone in the doorway to Aziraphale’s flat. 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale and smiles sheepishly. “It’s uh . . . very nice of my sibling and in-law to go to all this trouble, but . . . I know you said it wasn’t meant to be, and you didn’t want me to call again, and I understand completely if you’re not interested–”

Aziraphale grabs him by the lapels of his beautifully tailored black jacket and presses their lips together. He pulls away long enough to whisper, “I’m still very interested,” before kissing Crowley again. 

Crowley puts his arms around Aziraphale and they stumble backwards into Aziraphale’s flat. It takes Aziraphale three tries to shut the front door, distracted by Crowley’s hands sliding over his shoulders, down his back, and lower, cupping his arse. 

Aziraphale makes a soft sound of pleasure, and pulls Crowley’s suit jacket down his arms. Their lips part. Crowley is fumbling with the knot of Aziraphale’s bathrobe. 

“I have a turkey in the oven,” Aziraphale murmurs. “In case you’d rather have dinner first.” 

Crowley chuckles. “I think we can put it off for at least an hour more.” 

“The turkey will probably be ready in about twenty minutes.”

“I’m an event planner. We’re good at multi-tasking.” 

Aziraphale laughs as Crowley kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. 

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was so much fun to write! 
> 
> Thank you so much [IsleofSolitude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/) for the great prompts, and thank you to [PepperVL](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperVL) for hosting the Good Snowmens exchange! 
> 
> You can find me [on Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebright1) or occasionally on Discord with the same username. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thanks for reading!


End file.
